The Seventh One
by Imogen74
Summary: After HLV, Sherlock reflects on his life and Molly in particular and their wishes meet unexpectedly. Inspired by poetry of various sorts. M for Molly. M for some sexy stuff. Sherlolly
1. Chapter 1

Partially inspired by Whitman's "Oh me! Oh life!" poem. Read it...it's awesome.

(Also...I'll be finishing up All the World's a Stage this week...and my other WIP next week - thanks!)

(Tarmac Scene, Rethought)

"John, there's something I want to tell you…I've meant to say it always, but I never have."

A pregnant pause.

"I love you…you're my best friend, I've never had a best friend. Never believed I'd have one…but you are one of seven people in this world that I'd do anything for. And I would have continued to do it…had it not been for…." he stopped, and lowered his head.

"…been for…?"

He looked up and smiled a watery smile, "Well. To the very best of times…" and shook his dear friend's hand.

Sherlock turned to leave.

"Sherlock…"

"Hmmm?"

"Who are the seven people?"

He smiled at John. "Well, my parents, obviously. Mycroft…though don't you breathe a word to him. You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade…" he stopped.

John's face contorted in confusion. "I count six…"

Sherlock winked and went to board the plane.

* * *

Molly knew what was happening. She knew, she accepted it. She grieved silently as always (Molly Hooper was stronger than anyone gave her credit for). She suspected when she saw the video loop of Jim that it was a fake, which was why she wasn't terribly fussed (shocked, but not concerned). She also knew that the government would never allow Sherlock to leave now that it was suspected that Jim was back, Mycroft would see to that.

She got ready to leave at the end of the day. She hadn't checked her mobile, but noticed when she checked the time that she had missed a few texts.

_(2:25 pm) Won't be leaving. SH_

_(3:07 pm) I assume that you are ok. SH_

_(5:48 pm) Please send a text when you receive this that you are, in fact, ok. SH_

_(6:45 pm) If I don't hear from you in the next hour, I'm going to begin a search. SH_

_(6:46 pm) Well, Mycroft will, at any rate. SH_

That was an hour and fifteen minutes ago.

_I'm just leaving work now…am fine… MH_

"Too late," said a voice from behind her in the locker room.

"Oh! Hey, Sherlock," Molly had jumped and whirled around, smiling. "I'm fine, as you can see."

"Clearly," he replied. "Well…I'll just head back, then. Plenty of work…should we share a cab?"

Molly nodded and smiled. "That'd be lovely," and the pair walked out.

They walked out and Sherlock hailed a cab. Into the vehicle they clambered and he took out his phone and began to scroll. Molly fidgeted with her bag a bit, and began to make conversation, "So, I saw the interruption."

"Hmm, yes. I thought you might've."

"Working on that, then?"

"Trying to."

She took that as a plea for her to shut up.

But he continued, "I doubt it's anything to be overly concerned about. However, there will be certain…people….who will be given added protection courtesy of Mycroft. I hope that you don't find it to be too much of a hindrance."

"Me?"

"Yes…of course. Anyone who has been intimately acquainted with me will be watched more closely. Luckily, that list is rather small."

Molly nodded. "Yeah…I imagine."

He went back to his phone. "I want you to be careful, Molly. Mindful of your surroundings and people on the street."

She smirked. "I always am."

"More diligently, now. I insist," he looked intently at her.

"Ok, Sherlock."

He smiled as they reached her flat. "As an added precaution, I'll be texting you more regularly. Someone will be by tomorrow with a phone to serve that purpose. That phone is to be used only to text me - for nothing else. Keep it on your person always, but never let it be seen in public. Understand?"

She nodded. He was being thorough, and a bit over the top, she believed.

He continued, "One of Mycroft's men will be there with you tonight until that hone is delivered in the morning. No work tomorrow - and you'll be brought to Baker Street for a lunch meeting with John and Mary. Mycroft will also be there, unfortunately."

"Ok."

"Goodnight, Molly," and he turned away from her, texting his brother that she was at her building.

Molly returned the sentiment, and went to her flat, a bit confused, but glad for his fierce concern.

* * *

He returned to Baker Street alone. Flat empty. He put a kettle on, and began to rummage about the kitchen.

Mere hours ago he believed he might be sent away. For good. Forever. He thought that perhaps Mycroft would do something to stop it all…he thought that he wouldn't be privy to whatever scheme he conjured…but his brother had said no. This wasn't his work. Someone wanted the country to believe that Moriarty was alive.

Kettle screamed.

Pour out tea.

He never gave into the depression he often felt. Submission to such a weakness had never been high on his list of desirable attributes. But throughout his life (as he sat down by the fire, sipping his drink and stippling his fingers) he had danced with that tendency.

He fought it with drugs.

He evaded it with work.

He lost himself in the care of those whom he loved.

All of those silly people, worrying over silly things. Busying over whether some footie match was won. Caring about whether two fictional characters would ever fuck or not. What to have for dinner…who said what to whom…like a sick carousel of trite and insignificant worries that people use to deny and avoid that what really matters.

What was the point.

Foolish streets filled with equally foolish people.

But for seven.

Seven people whom he loved had made his life worthwhile.

But to everyone, until recently, it was six. Well, maybe three.

That one person, the one person whom he would deny, repeatedly, having any want or feeling for, crept to the forefront of his mind…crept, because he had kept her safe from himself. Safe from the life he lived, except when absolutely necessary. Safe from his thoughts, for his thoughts were most troubling of all…

"You shouldn't deny yourself, Sherlock. Everyone deserves love…" His mind conjured Molly sitting across from him in John's chair.

"I don't. Not really," he looked up at her. His eyes were sad.

Molly smirked her crooked smile. "Yes, you do. You're a good person."

"You cannot know that. I haven't let you in…"

"Why?"

"Because you're safer when kept at a distance," and he turned toward the fire.

"From what, exactly?" and Mind Molly slid off the chair and kneeled in front of him, and rested her hands on his knees.

He looked at her again. "From me. From my life."

"You should let me judge that," and she began to slowly lean into him, her eyes resting on his mouth.

"And what would you do if I let you?"

"This…" and she grabbed his mouth in hers, her tongue licking his bottom lip. She quickly deepened the kiss, desperate in her actions. She climbed atop him, not breaking the kiss, and straddled him in his chair.

She quickly began taking off her jumper…her bra, and he grabbed her sides and pulled her breast to his face, caressing her nipple, already erect in anticipation, and Molly moaned loudly.

Somehow (likely because his mind couldn't withstand it) she was naked, and he was inside her warmth, her rocking gently on top of him, her head thrown back, hands on his shoulders. Slowly she quickened her motion, and she looked at him now, fierce hunger across her face, along with perspiration and something else indescribable. Sherlock met her eyes, and a tear formed…his hand reached up to her cheek…

And she vanished. He was alone once more. But the tear fell in solitude down his face.

* * *

Molly laid in her bed while a stranger sat in her lounge. She thought about the cab ride, and how silly Sherlock was. Of course she would be fine.

It gave her great pleasure to finally be at ease around him. Her stammer abandoned, her eagerness quelled, her sarcasm evident. She didn't think he noticed all that much, really. But to Molly Hooper, it meant the world.

How much she loved him, she couldn't say. She hadn't always loved him, that much was certain. He was a prat.

But…she saw how much love and care he was capable of. She noticed his face when no one else did. She saw how much emotion lingered under the surface of his skin…and Molly, though always prone to silly flights of fancy, would also despair in her quiet. She longed to touch his hand, to let him know that she, too, felt pain…

"I don't feel pain, Molly," said Sherlock from the chair in her bedroom.

"You feel it more than anyone I've ever known," she told the apparition, and she sat up.

"Ridiculous," he smirked. "You know me too well."

"I do. And I still love you."

"How?"

She shrugged. "Dunno…just do. You amaze me, but also never surprise me."

He got up and sat on the edge of her bed. "Well, Molly Hooper. You always surprise me."

She leaned back against the headboard. "I don't believe you…you don't pay attention to me."

Sherlock leaned in toward her. "I see you…when you aren't looking…and you amaze me…you beautiful, brilliant creature," and he grabbed her, and kissed her soundly.

Molly quickly succumbed to his actions, and he undressed her without ceremony…his hands feeling out every inch of her in passionate examination…and he too, though Molly couldn't account for it, was naked, and now on top of her.

Their kisses were hungry, their hands on the other's faces, asses, running along their heated bodies in such a frenzy that Molly felt as though she were falling.

And when he slid inside her, she gasped, she cried, and he followed suit…again and again he thrusted in her, until she wept, overwhelmed…

And on her side she laid. Curled like a child, holding onto the duvet, soaking her pillow in salty tears.

Molly only wanted to be a small but significant verse in the play that surrounded the great man, she never wished for anything so dramatic as what her mind just created.

And Sherlock, for his part, merely wanted Molly…to let the world go by…he was tired of it all…his mind required respite. She could be his tonic, if he wasn't such a coward…

The two minds met without realizing…their wishes oddly similar. And the streets below hummed in constant banter, in meaningless drabble, in adherent worship of all things contrived…

In tandem they played without knowledge, each contributing a verse to the other, and their tears mixed in somber morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**(For SammyKatz. I hope ****you like it...)**

**A Thought For A Lonely Death-Bed**

**I****F God compel thee to this destiny,  
To die alone, with none beside thy bed  
To ruffle round with sobs thy last word said  
And mark with tears the pulses ebb from thee,-  
Pray then alone, ' O Christ, come tenderly !  
By thy forsaken Sonship in the red  
Drear wine-press,-by the wilderness out-spread,-  
And the lone garden where thine agony  
Fell bloody from thy brow,-by all of those  
Permitted desolations, comfort mine !  
No earthly friend being near me, interpose  
No deathly angel 'twixt my face and thine,  
But stoop Thyself to gather my life's rose,  
And smile away my mortal to Divine ! ' (Elizabeth Barrett Browning)**

_She was warm beside him, laying on her belly, laughing at something or other…he was on his side, his hand tracing her back as it vibrated with her laughter, her ass, as it responded to his touch, and up again until his fingers reached her face…she turned to him with an eager glare…his right arm quickly slid underneath her and turned her on her back. HIs mouth covered hers in possession, and he rolled on top of her, his legs spreading hers apart. Once more, he played her lips apart with his fingers, deftly eliciting arousal from her in wet response…her hunger evident, as was his, as his cock found her center, sliding again inside her, her nails drawing blood with the ferocity of her passion…_

His eyes flew open. How many of these dreams had he suffered? Why did he even bother attempting to find sleep? It was no use, and he sighed. When did Molly take over this part of his mind? Surely for some time now…but it was without such frequency, without such turbulent desire as he had experienced this night. He went to get up, but his erection prevented him from moving fluidly. He went to the shower and turned on the cold water. How would he handle seeing her today? Here? In his flat? It was too much to consider…he had better just relieve himself and hopefully spare any embarrassment from his increasingly wandering mind.

He got out of the shower and brewed coffee. Rubbing his face with his hands, he looked at the chair in the lounge, and recalled the initial fantasy he had had last night…one that had played repeatedly in his reverie…and he thought, what if he allowed himself to succumb to these primal appetites? Would Molly respond?

But no…he had promised himself long ago that he would never involve her in his ridiculous life. He was a dangerous man. He had done unthinkable things…what would he do to her if she let him?

* * *

_Molly's flat was different, as was customary in a dream state. She entered a low-lit room. He was on a sofa, completely naked, holding a glass of wine. He was lovely, she thought, and she went over to him, suddenly aware that she was sans clothing, too. She accepted the wine, and sat next to him, sipping. She smirked as he drank, and she took the remainder of the wine and poured it over his front. She then set to cleaning the mess with her tongue…slowly making her way to his wine-soaked cock. He moaned in response, as she took him fully in her mouth. Hungry was the only way to describe it…and she feasted on him, until finally she pushed him back on the sofa, climbed atop him and rode his erection with an almost vengeful desire._

God. Molly's eyes flitted open. She inhaled a sharp breath and got up. That man was still here, and she thought given the nature of her plagued night, she might just come undone and attack any willing partner.

But for one thing - Sherlock Holmes was the only participant in her dreams, not some nameless man or woman.

What on earth had set this off? Had she eaten something that wasn't agreeing with her? Was she ovulating? No. She was due for that next week...

He had, admittedly, been kinder. He had been attentive. Surely that was the cause.

But Molly had resigned herself! And she was not a typically weak specimen! She was steadfast. She was strong. She had scruples.

She gave her protector a cup of coffee and checked the mobile Sherlock had arranged to be delivered.

_1 pm Baker Street. Your man will see you to the front door. SH _

Ok. She had time to collect herself.

Right on time Mycroft's car arrived, and the man (she ought to call him by name, but it felt a bit too familiar since he hardly uttered a word) guided her into the car.

* * *

Molly ascended the stairs to the B flat, and knocked softly on the door.

"Hello?" she said, for it appeared at first blush to be empty, and it was quite silent.

"Hello, Molly," and Sherlock appeared from the kitchen. "Tea?"

"Uh…no thanks," and she smiled, and entered the flat. "Where is everyone?"

"Well…it's a funny story," he began.

"It is?" Molly saw nothing humorous being alone with the detective at present.

"Yes," and he went to his chair and sat. Molly sat opposite, and he shifted at the memory of his fantasy. "You see, Mary thinks that John is in very grave danger, and refuses his exit from their flat. She is rather protective, Mary…and Mycroft, seeing as how two of the primary participants weren't going to be here, decided that he was better served working from his office. Just as well, really. He has better access to the bake shop that way."

"Bake shop?"

"Indeed, yes. He can send his PA out and she would be back with a pastry in less than 10 minutes. Here, it may take a full half an hour…and that won't do for Mycroft's cravings," he smiled.

"He likes sweets, does he?"

"Likes is an understatement of a most severe nature. The man is positively addicted," he paused. "But then…being an addict myself, I won't pass judgement. Ridicule, yes. But never judge," and he winked at Molly.

She smiled. "I suppose I should just go, then."

"Why?"

"Well…there's no meeting…I could go home and tend to things…"

"What sort of things need your immediate attention?" he replied.

Molly thought a moment. In truth, she wanted to escape the flat and the stirrings she felt in Sherlock's presence. "Um…well…nothing _immediate, _I suppose."

"Exactly. We will lunch together. I already ordered the take-away," and he rose form his station to see to the doorbell.

Molly fidgeted a bit in her chair. She rubbed her left arm distractedly with her right hand. She cursed herself for being nervous, for, as she reminded herself, there was nothing to be nervous about.

Sherlock returned with the food. "I hope you like Chinese…" he said, with a hint of trepidation in his voice.

"It's fine."

He handed her some paper containers and plates. "I never use chopsticks."

"No…why ever not? They're fun," and she smiled.

"They are wooden spears one uses to clumsily tweeze food between. Ridiculous action."

"You can't do it," Molly laughed.

His face fell, but he looked at her crookedly. "Never could. I suppose my fingers are too long for them…certainly it's not a lack of dexterity."

"Of course not."

He joined in her laughter.

Molly cleared her throat as she ate. "So…what was the meeting to cover?"

He sat back in his chair and looked at the fire. It was damp out (as per usual), and the fire was pleasant and soothing. "Mostly codes for communication. Mycroft wished to review who would be monitoring each flat…Two outside the Watson's, one at NSY, two here, two at your flat."

"Why does Greg only get one?"

"Greg?" he asked confusedly, looking at her.

"Yes…um…DI Lestrade…? One of the people you Fell for?" Molly thought he was attempting to be funny, with his constant confusion over Greg's first name.

"Ah…yes…well, NYS does have officers, however inept. Guns, that sort of thing…." his voice trailed. "Now that you mention it, perhaps he should have five point persons…" and he winked at her.

Molly laughed. "Is this really necessary, Sherlock? I mean, I'm really fine."

"You most certainly are not," and he got up to brew coffee. He was done with the tea.

Molly sighed. "I'm not a child. The phone should suffice."

He went over to her and sat down once more. "Listen to me Molly. You have no idea what these people are about…you're too…good, to see it. I have experience with this lot, and I know what they are capable of."

"I'm not all that good," she muttered, looking down.

"I'm sorry?"

She blushed, recalling her dreams. "Nothing."

He sat back. "I'm brewing coffee…you take yours white?"

"No sugar," she said nodding.

Molly had wasted the day away at 221B, laughing and looking at the leads he had amassed thus far. It was well into dinner, but they hardly noticed, for Sherlock had broken out the wine left behind from the holidays a few months previous.

The wine had gotten to her head, and she was feeling bold. They were sitting next to one another at the laptop, and Molly began to gaze upon his features a bit more intensely, only recalling herself after many long seconds would pass. She cleared her throat. "So…perhaps I should get going."

"Why?" he asked, not breaking his concentration on the screen.

"Do you want me to stay?"

At this he looked. "I…" he cleared his throat. Her face carried a blush from the wine, her eyes were soft, she met his gaze with a hint of hesitation.

"Well?"

"No. You can go if you like," and he returned to the work.

Molly sighed and sat back. "Sherlock."

"Hmmm?"

"Are we friends?"

"Of course we are, Molly. What are you on about?"

"Look at me," she commanded.

He acquiesced.

"You know…have known…how I feel about you," Molly began.

Sherlock looked away. "Yes."

"Yes. Have you anything to say on the matter?"

His heart pounded in his chest. Did he have anything to say? What should he say? If he admitted to anything, he'd be putting her in perilous danger, he knew that, and that was why he could never…

"No."

A tear formed in her eye. "Ok," she replied, standing. She got her bag, and went to leave. She reached the door, but turned to face him once more. "Are you not afraid, Sherlock, of dying alone? Are you not afraid of never loving another person? Of always being the one left behind? Of pining for a touch, a smile, an embrace? Is this not what life is for? To enjoy, to be part of, another person's life and mean something to them? To wake in the morning with the soft dew of the day lingering on your beloved's face and relish the fact that you are their's? Do you never think that the only reason to live is to contribute something meaningful to another person? To mark them as unequivocally yours? What's the point, if not for that? To end your days in meaningless echoing nothing? In hollow, unyielding dark?" A sob escaped her lips. "Maybe it's just me."

"Molly…" he stood, moved by her words. He never knew her to be so eloquently verbose. "I cannot…if I did, you would surely be in utter danger…and if I allowed myself to let you, and I couldn't protect you…the result would be the same as you just described. But I'd have a broken heart additionally."

"I see."

"You do?"

"You're a coward," she spat.

He was shaken at her words. "I am not. I'm merely…"

"You're afraid, but of all the wrong things. You fear the ridicule of love. The judgment of others. You fear letting your guard down and becoming vulnerable. Your precious veneer being chipped away, something you've meant to keep intact for so long…fuck you." She turned to leave.

He went to her directly and grabbed her arm.

His eyes were blazing. He guided her to the wall and pushed her against it. His hands glided up her torso to her face, and finally looked directly in her eyes. This was the moment, he thought. No turning back after this….

His thumbs rubbed her cheeks as she steadily returned his look. Her hands went up to his wrists, and her eyes fell to his mouth.

And he seized her lips in his own, hungrily attacking her tongue and mouth with a pent-up ferocity heretofore unknown to either one. His body slammed against hers in desperation, pushing her hard against the wall.

A sob and a moan was heard, but indiscernible as to who had uttered them…

He stepped away from her for a brief second, and tore her clothes off, ripping the shirt under her jumper and hurried to her pants. Molly couldn't move in response, her mind racing and yet stopping simultaneously. He found her mouth again, and she handled his shirt in much the same manner. When he was divested of his pants, Molly's legs wrapped around him, and he entered her in hurried fashion.

There was no time for tenderness, no exploration, no gentle embrace. The passion that ensued needed to be met, and met it they did with ferocity.

Over and over he plunged deeper into her, while she clung to him for life…she leaned back on the wall, wanting to see his face…and what she spied was a faint smile, warm eyes and furrowed brow in his heat.

His fingers found her clit, and she screamed at the touch…climaxing mere seconds later, and he followed.

The pair fell to the floor, panting.

His hand found her breast, still obscured by her bra, and he massaged it tenderly.

"I love you," said Molly, with breathy voice.

"I know…" he returned. "And you are my angel bathed in incandescent light…I've never loved anyone quite as I love you…and I'd be honored if you let me hold your hand in the midst of this dark comedy of life."

The streetlights glowed outside. The play singing onward, touched by a spark of the divine, the sound of a voice, the touch of a lover, the hymn of transcendence and of submission to the holy. That spark which resides in each of us, filling our hearts with warmth, and Molly's mind with hope.


End file.
